


Silver

by gardnerhill



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anniversary, M/M, Old Married Couple, Retirement, Sherlock Holmes's Retirement, Zine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-19 09:24:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3604929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/pseuds/gardnerhill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s just a number.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silver

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Escapade 2015’s 25th anniversary zine.

1.

The subject first enters Sherlock’s mind while he stands over the corpse of a man bludgeoned with a frying pan. (The wife is in custody of course, sobbing that she and the mister had had a row but she hadn’t done the deed, they’d been coming up on their 25th anniversary and why would she do such a thing?) While John mutters that the scene is a 1960s sitcom come to life and Sherlock testily asks him what the hell the telly has to do with this situation, the consulting part of the firm continues to take in details and comb them into place.

Sherlock directs the police to look more carefully at the height of the blood spray and the partial footprint under the window. The culprit turns out to be the neighbour below, a mousey bloke obsessed with the wife for months and who became enraged when she turned him down – and chose the time after the couple’s fight to commit murder and frame the woman who refused him.

“I’d like five minutes with that shit.” John looks at the blubbering oaf through the two-way mirror, jaw and fists clenched. “They were almost at their quarter-century anniversary, and he destroyed them.”

Sherlock files that away as another thing-John-feels-that-I-don’t-understand in the mind palace. “This would have been just as pointless had he done this before their 17th anniversary, or as they left the church after the ceremony.”

John exhales hard through his nose and nods. But it’s the reason he writes up the case under the blog title “The Missing One-Quarter.”

2.

Both men go to Lestrade’s do at the station, John grinning and Sherlock bitching as is his wont in a social situation. It’s a good party and the atmosphere is lightened greatly by Lestrade finally being cleared by the Commissioner. John’s impending nuptials is also celebrated at the station (which touches John greatly), and Sherlock not being dead after all is a nice touch, too.

Naturally Sherlock distinguishes himself upon the occasion. In his speech, he acknowledges that 25 years on the force is generally regarded as an important milestone, even if it’s more likely just another tip to pointless numerology. John winces at the silent police and the politely-smiling Greg and is very glad Sherlock doesn’t have a car, as he’d have incurred his weight in parking and speeding citations for the next two years.

To be fair, Holmes continues on to make a very touching talk about the courage and tenacity to achieve such a length of service in an often-unrewarding job. He unflinchingly discusses the angry young heroin addict Lestrade had believed in and saved more than once, before that addict began to save others. (Most of the Yard don’t understand why Greg blushes so furiously when Sherlock mentions that his brother, who was very grateful for that intervention, wished to offer his congratulations to the DI in a more personal venue; Donovan purses her lips to hide the smirk, and John stands at parade rest with his best stone face.)

He all but carries John home and pours him into bed. He still doesn’t quite understand it all. It’s just a number.

3.

In the 25th year since the millennium began both men agree that the Garrideb case will be their last.

This is the case where Sherlock learns that he does not react well to the sound and sight of John Watson getting shot and bleeding out in a curio shop. Only his friend’s angry rebuke keeps Sherlock from tearing the trigger-happy American apart with his bare hands (“Nurse, make yourself goddamn useful and press here! There’s been enough blood lost”).

John’s second bullet wound leaves him with an actual damaged leg, which no amount of running after Sherlock will cure (any and all running, in fact, is put on indefinite hold). Evans is imprisoned pending extradition; Natalie Garrideb, the elderly proprietress with the odd surname who’d seen her promised riches dashed, becomes a bitter, mumbling mess; the doctor once again turns patient; and the consulting detective runs a new evaluation of the pros and cons of his profession: Go mad from inactivity, or go mad with grief?

Enough, both say, Sherlock firmly and John with a lot of swearing (they make this vow during one of John’s PT sessions). They will call it quits and find something else to do. Sherlock has never worried overmuch about the financial side of their venture, but John is better at keeping track of that aspect of their work, especially when illustrious or well-heeled clients are involved. They have a decent financial cushion to rest on while they decide what to do next.

And Sherlock chooses his brand of madness. John’s instant response lets the other man know that this deduction was spot-on, and that he will not be alone in this asylum: “About time you saw what was in front of you, you twat. I didn’t want to wait for the other ¾ of the damn century to pass.”

And Sherlock finally begins to understand what this numerology means.

4.

221 Baker Street hums with bees. They are a jumble of species, most of them eusocial and none of them produce honey, but the rooftop garden is a riot of well-pollinated vegetables and flowers, bordered by the roses Mrs. Hudson bequeathed both of them. Sherlock is enthralled with the little insects, and has been ever since their retirement – with the extra _frisson_ of urgency about reversing hive colony collapse that feels very like trying to stop an immense crime in progress. His findings have gained him a new generation of fans in the apiculture community. He turns down requests for his aid in criminal matters (except for the very, very rare one that presents itself as a puzzle, perhaps 2-3 times a decade) and has been known to spend three days in a row without descending into the building. (Best of all, his foul-smelling laboratory has moved permanently into a rooftop shed.)

Semi-retired as he is, Sherlock still pays the bills with his deductive abilities – second-hand, through John’s books based on his original blog entries, expanded and revised. Six short-story collections and novel-length treatments of four cases have made John Holmes-Watson a minor celebrity on the crime-writer circuit (easy to pick him out in a crowded conference room, a small white-haired plainly-dressed man with a hobbling gait gripping the gold lion head atop a mahogany cane). At such gatherings attendees and fellow speakers invariably ask why John’s famous husband never accompanies him; “He doesn’t like to leave the bees alone, he’s deathly afraid he’ll miss something,” John says, and it’s mostly true.

This week John is not at a conference, and Sherlock actually leaves his hives to the care of one of his beekeeper associates. Both are in Paris, dancing in a room full of like-minded couples. They are in no danger of recognition, these two old geezers shuffling around a small patch of floor; Sherlock Watson-Holmes has grown a paunch and age has settled into his bones and joints, even without the benefit of two bullet wounds that make his spouse slower and stumble-footed.

A small grunt of pain from John and Sherlock knows the dance is over. Back to their hotel room, then; a hot bath for two, the rest of the champagne, and the bed in which they will sleep together as they have for the last quarter century.

Twenty-five years, it has been – twenty-five years to the day they agreed on this new definition of their relationship. They’ve aged, lost dear friends, gained new ones, watched each other grow old, fought, apologized, left behind youth and mid-life, settled into each other’s crevices like two saplings that grow into one conjoined tree.

Twenty-five years. Three weeks longer than that poor dead man and heartbroken woman had had together. Now he understood.

“I should have let you thrash that bastard,” he murmurs.


End file.
